Muse
by Quillfiend
Summary: She is searching for answers. He is looking for inspiration. Their paths cross in the fuming city of Zaun, and both get more than they bargained for.


The art came from him.

Jhin recalled the rush he felt when he held his new gun for the first time. It was a beautiful tool, a masterwork, but ultimately only a mediator between him and the world; a paintbrush that crudely put down the strokes that first sprung up in his mind, now for everybody to see.

The art came from him. Not the gun, not the bullets and certainly not the canvas - he knew this and yet he could not let his gaze slip off his newest victim. The smoke and fumes of Zaun obstructed his vision of the murky streets; figures blended together into a gray, uninspired mold, save for a single woman that fiercely defied the monotone. Coral and sapphire, gold and caramel - she was the image of a radiant dawn. It would take a single show to paint the scenery crimson, to shift the zenith into a bloody dusk; a magnum opus waiting for Jhin to seize it, to write his signature down in the corner and once again become the Virtuoso.

One, two, three. He slowly lifted his gun.

"No, no, _moon aspect_, not a blasted rune insect," Leona repeated for the third time, exasperated with the daft and thoroughly unhelpful yordle merchant, "I'm looking for a woman. Silver hair and—"

"She can hear you just alright," a morbidly obese man from a neighbor stall noted, "she's just trying to make business, you know? Like everybody here. Hey, you there! Tickets for the Grand Mechestra! Ninety-nine percent genuine!"

"I have coin," Leona pointed out to both the yordle and the hollering man, clumsily tapping at her plated belt, "I can pay for information."

"Do you, though?" The yordle's voice was squeaky, mocking, irritating. "Where is it, then?"

"I could've sworn—"

"First time here, eh?" huffed the fat seller, struggling to breathe in the smog, "that's Zaun for you. Watch your pockets better next time."

"Or don't march in looking so rich," the yordle mused, "like you've got things to steal."

"Rich? I am blessed by the sun - these relics were given to me by—"

She was about to go off on a lecture, teach the godless people of Piltover something about reverence, yet something made her stop in her words. A feeling; an instinct.

"You think she's stuck?"

Spinning around in the blink of an eye, Leona's shield sprung into her hand, shining with radiant light. She was not a second too early; a heavy bullet bounced off it, ringing against the blessed metal. Chaos ensued; panicked that there was a shooter somewhere above, the people scurrying about Leona started clearing out the street with cries and screams for help. No other attack followed however, and when Leona looked up from her bastion, the assailant was long since gone.

"So that's Zaun for me," she noted dryly, "what a pleasure."

She was like the sun, but did not behave like one at all. A sun does not go underground, skulk about the sewers and beneath rusted grates. That is the domain of the dark, and as much as Jhin abhorred the natural order being disrupted, he also found it curious; inspiring. His first venture failed, and he was spited, and then he came back; his craft beckoned him like a fickle lover he could never refuse, no matter how much he suffered for it. He had a goal here in Zaun, a grand commission paid for by the coven, but he could not focus, he could not devote himself to his task until he had carved sun itself.

And now she'd gone deep into Zaun's bowels in search of her answers, and he could naught but shadow her. There was no audience for his grand skills down in the underbelly, none but rats and fiends, but if she was not to emerge, he would lose a precious canvas - perhaps the grandest of them all.

And so he had to follow.

The air down in Zaun's gutter was even worse than above in the streets, and not by the virtue of its horrid smell; it was like acid, biting into the lungs of whoever dared venture so deep without a gas mask. Leona's shell was sturdy and her resolve steel, yet she felt pain with every labored breath she drew. She wished only to turn around and leave this cursed city, but she couldn't; the footsteps of Diana led her here, and she had to find the scorned moon aspect before the hungry shadows of Mount Targon. Not because she had questions, not because she craved to exact vengeance; they were the last of their kind, the Sun and the Moon, and bitter solitude gnawed at Leona more than the poisonous fumes of Zaun. _To have a sister..._

Coughing, she finally reached the end of pipe 6H, where more information was supposed to await her. She banged her fist at the heavy lid at the end of the tube, and was let into a small chamber shortly after. It was as odious as the rest of the sewers, only made more disgusting by the presence of its inhabitors. Two men, bald and clotheless, attended her; their torsos were mounted on a set of mechanical legs, sweat and filth leaking from between their rolls of fat. Protected from the vapors by their gas masks, they seemed otherwise unbothered by their miserable state.

"Who... Are you?" Leona wheezed, struggling to speak. Her eyes scouted the small abode, full of strange tools and vats and bearing no signs of the moon aspect's presence.

"Standard humanoid height," one of the malformed men assessed her instead of answering, "strange magical properties, possibly of celestial origin. Luri sent you?"

"Luri said," Leona took another breath of the putrid air, coughing, "Luri said that those who live here—that you spoke to Diana. That she needed something from you."

The lid behind her back closed, and she felt as if the vapors thickened. The deformed brothers watched her with their curious, black eyes, and she could not tell their intent. She never was good at judging people - like the yordle who seemed genuine when she sent her to this hellish place. Leona realized this might have been a mistake.

"Superior toughness," she was assessed once again, "possibly a transferrable quality. Come, sit—"

Grasping for her blade, Leona surrounded herself in glinting light. The wicked men jumped back, but her energy dissipated quickly as she struggled with the poison in her body. They circled her like vultures, fearful of her blade, but they were two and she only had one sword; unable to ward both of them off in this state, she felt a sting of something sharp between her armor plates. Her mind was slipping.

She was no ordinary mortal. She had truths to share, a burden to bear; she could not be lost. Not here, not now. She could not die - or could she?

She heard a gunshot before the dark swallowed her. After that, just nightmarish silence.

Jhin never felt comfortable in broad daylight, and perhaps that was why he forced himself into a shadowed corner as he watched his canvas recover. He felt a great sorrow, a deep pain haunting his thoughts; the world seemed cruel and dark to him now that it had almost given something so beautiful to the pigs and spiders of Zaun, and only his intervention prevented a great tragedy.

He should've felt relief at how fate spun her thread in his favor, but he did not. Lounging in one of the most lavish inns the Promenade districts could offer, Jhin arranged his newest sculpt so that she would be found; laid atop sheets of white silk, the first to inspect the room would see her as the crimson sun, so perfectly captured in his imagination. Yet he could not bring himself to carve, to undo what was written in the face of this woman; a grief to match his, the weight of knowledge no mortal had borne before. Many times he had lifted his guns and his knives above her, ready to strike, only to draw away in realization that he could never replicate her eternal melancholy. Were the gods mocking him? Did they show him their craft to challenge his arrogance, to expose his ego?

She stirred in her sleep. Jhin could tell his prey was coming to her senses; plagued by anger and misery, he fled the scene of the crime that had never happened.

Leona woke in heaven.

Or so it seemed, anyway. Laid bare atop soft, white cushions, a marvelous image struck her eyes as soon as she'd opened them; a mosaic ceiling inlaid with gold and painted glass, reflecting the sunlight like a thousand tiny mirrors. The knight was sure the gods have called her to them at last, and so she waited, and waited, and waited, testing her patience to its limits and beyond.

Just as she was about to rise and go seek the servants of the gods herself, the door burst open and in stormed two dark-clad Ionians that certainly did _not_ look like the servants of the gods. They and Leona exchanged a few confused looks, before the knight deemed it appropriate to slowly pull one of the pristine blankets over her woefully exposed form.

"Where is he?" barked one of the Ionians as soon as Leona covered herself and sat up, "why are you not dead?"

"This is not heaven," Leona stated plainly, "it's just Zaun again."

"What are you talking about?" the dark woman before her snapped as her companion carefully checked the windows and the side rooms. Leona took a deep breath and recited a quiet prayer; she needed the sun to give her strength to not blast the entire city to ash and then incinerate that ash for good measure.

"He's not here," the male Ionian said after a while, "this is strange. What game is he playing now?"

"Not to be impatient," Leona hissed between her clenched teeth, "but is there perhaps an explanation you can offer me? Anything?"

"Are you his accomplice?"

"Come now, Hiku - you know he always works alone."

Instead of answering her, the assassins - or whatever they were - started bickering. Leona pushed herself off the lavish bed and went to gaze down from the tall windows. They were high above the city, almost nauseatingly so. She didn't recognize the streets below, though the iron spires poking through the thick ring of smog and fumes deep below seemed familiar.

_So that's where I was before_, she thought to herself, _and somebody brought me here._

Before she could start wondering where her blessed armaments were, the Ionians turned to her again. They seemed notably less agitated now, even a little remorseful.

"We are agents of the _Kinkou_ order," the woman finally explained, "we are on the trail of a dangerous killer, Khada Jhin. We were certain you were to be his newest victim, but..."

"But you weren't," the other _kinkou_ finished her sentence, "which is strange, because we are certain he was here."

"Was he who brought me here?" Leona asked, trying to recall her last memories before she collapsed in the sewer. Smoke and gunshots. Did the spider-men sell her to this killer? Did he kill them too?

"It seems so, but..."

"But you're alive. And that shouldn't happen."

"Why, thank you," Leona uttered dryly.

"That's not what we mean. There must be a reason that he let you live. It could be crucial in hunting him down."

Leona squinted. Her first instinct was antipathy; why would she help capture a man who may have saved her? Of course, she felt guilt at the thought right after - they did say he was a serial killer, and to pursue him would be to pursue justice. Distraught, she looked at her hands. They were human in appearance, yet she felt this very humanity slipping her with every moment spent crushed by the terrible wisdom thrust onto her shoulders by the gods. What did a human life mean in the grand scheme of things? What did a hundred? And could Diana help her find her compassion again?

"Do you remember anything?"

Pulled from her thoughts, Leona looked up. "Somebody tricked me into visiting a pair of strange men in the sewers. They tried to poison me. I heard gunshots, then I woke up here."

"He's trying to distract us from the Grand Mechestra," one of the _kinkou_ noted after a while. His companion nodded and turned to leave.

"And what about me?" Leona huffed when they both shower her their backs, "am I supposed to just ignore this all?!"

"Stay out of trouble," was all she was told before both of the shadow agents stormed out to pursue their charge. Leona stared after them for a while, letting out a long, irritated sigh.

It was time to start looking for her armor.

She was extraordinary, this woman. Every one of her steps was heavy, so heavy with the pain she had to bear, a terrible solitude and visions of something greater than the world. Yet she defied, and it was then that Jhin had realized his mistake; never could he turn her into an image of a perfect sun as she already was it. Her stride was the dawn, labored and rising with great difficulty; her body the high noon, proud above the dreary world; her face the umbral dusk, melancholy incarnate; her eyes the night, radiant and yet so empty, so dark, so detached. A harrowing, yet beautiful idea came to the killer as he watched his desired victim try and find her way back into the Zaunite slums: that perhaps she wasn't a canvas, a sculpt to be molded, but a muse made to shape his mind.

He crept after her, unseen and unnoticed, trying to grasp this feeling that took ahold of his senses. Rarely did he change his plans and artistic visions even a little, but this woman inspired him to scrap the entire plan he had for the Grand Mechestra and write it into something much grander. Yes, the world would see his unmatched genius.

But more importantly, she would see it.

Leona didn't even notice him at first. The man walking beside her was quiet like the nights atop Mount Targon, shrouded and unsuspecting. She had no idea how long he had been with her, but she still slowed her stride now that she was made aware of his presence. She had questions.

"So you're Khada Jhin," she said as he pocketed an apple from one of the slum merchants without them even noticing. Feeling no desire to exact justice on behalf of the people who robbed and tricked her, her eyes remained on the masked man.

"One of the many names I've been given, yes," he agreed, offering her the surprisingly unsoiled fruit, "I owe you an apology."

"Do you?" Leona took the offering; had he wanted to kill her, he could've already done so. The crust of the apple was crunchy, delicious; the inside of it was like ash, bitter and soaked with Zaun's filth. Still she swallowed, not wanting to toss away the only gift she had received since her ascension.

"When I first saw you in the streets of Zaun, I mistook you for something else. Something mundane. To shoot at you was a mistake."

"So you were the mysterious roof shooter." Leona felt no anger, just resignation. "I thought the bullet wasn't even meant for me."

"I rarely miss."

"The spider-men in the sewers - you didn't miss them, then."

"Correct."

They walked the crowded street in silence for a bit, the busy underdogs of Zaun turning their heads after the radiant woman and ignoring the shrouded man. Leona wanted to just leave this place, now certain she would not obtain any information regarding the moon aspect here, yet still her mysterious assailant made her linger.

"I don't think they had the means to truly kill me," she picked up the conversation after a while, "but they could have caused me much suffering, so I thank you for not letting that happen. I think that makes us even."

He bowed to her. "Even, perhaps - but not done. I wish you to come and see my newest installation."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "And just what is that, hm? The _kinkou_ told me you were a murderer. A serial killer. I should strike you down for that alone."

"Yet you do not. Why is that, I wonder?"

She couldn't find the answer to that, or perhaps she was afraid of it - made to pass punishment on the guilty, she felt little for the victims of their crimes. They saw hope in her, but more than that something that was human no longer, and they were right - she could hardly fault them for fearing her nature. But this man - this man did not fear her. And it gave her solace.

"When you've seen the things I have seen, everything loses its meaning," she said, her voice drenched in melancholy, "what are we to the stars that will burn for thousands of years? What are we to gods that will see us live and die like ants? What even matters anymore?"

"Let us matter for a single evening," he whispered gently, discreetly offering her a gilded envelope, "stay for just one more night, and if you feel as empty as you do now after the grand reveal, then we may part ways - never to meet again."

She opened the envelope and took out the two folded parchments it contained. One was a document extending her stay at the Silver Serpent, the awfully opulent inn in the Promenade District he had originally brought her to. The other was an invitation to the Grand Mechestra, a yearly symphonic event at which the greatest machinists and musicians would display their newest works. By the look of the ticket it was not something just about anybody could visit, but an event reserved for the richest and most influential of the Zaunite high society.

"Where did you get this?" Leona asked, only to find that the masked man was already gone. She stopped in the middle of the street, people bumping into and against her; with her eyes once again set at the invitation, she heard none of their insults.

_So be it, then. One more night in this infernal city._

Knowing he'd be recognized too quickly in his usual get-up, Jhin traded his favourite ivory mask and gold-lined poncho for a more Zaunite garb. The dark suit with brass filigrees lended him the appearance of a rich machinist, his disguise only made more genuine by his mechanical arm and the goggled gas mask covering his face. He blended in with the crowd at the Hextheatre, the large concert hall at the top of the Promenade district that hosted the Grand Mechestra, and nobody suspected the thing - not even the _kinkou _that desperately searched the guest mob for any sign of him. As usual, he was a step ahead - they would not ruin his performance tonight.

Having arrived long before the start of the show, Jhin watched the morbidly obese chem-barons mingle with the Piltover elite guard and the high machinists. He even caught a glimpse of Camille, the hextech monstrosity that had almost - _almost_ \- managed to kill him. None of them had a clue that he was there, standing just a few yards away, watching their bulbous, overdressed bodies rise with each breath. _How they would bleed - how perfectly they would fit into his darker pieces..._

Leona despised being out of her armor, and it was as her benefactor knew this when he picked her attire for the Grand Mechestra. The borrowed velvet dress has dozens of small brass plates sewn onto its arms and back, lending her the safety of a turtle in its shell. Still she took the zenith blade with her; the sword and her solari coronet sealed her look as one of a Zaunite aristocrat, perfectly fitting within the steam city.

Walking up to the booming Hextheatre at Zaun's very peak, she could see Piltover looming over it on the cliffs above. It was as if the sparkling metal city looked down on Zaun with a judgemental stare, disgusted - but also too detached to anything about it. In a way, it reminded her of herself, or rather her inevitable fate were she to stay on her current path.

"You again," a familiar voice pulled Leona out of her somber thoughts at the entrance to the Hextheatre. The _kinkou _agents stood before the heavy iron gate, scanning everybody going in. Not all were as compliant as Leona; many of the chem-courtiers and consorts of the high barons complained endlessly about the Ionians' incompetence.

"Me again," Leona affirmed, "I figured I may as well see what Zaun has to offer while I'm here."

She offered her ticket for inspection, and the agents exchanged a couple of blank stares. They asked no questions, and after the attaché let Leona inside, they lost interest in her.

The entry hall was impressive. Having walked the temples of the gods, Leona's breath was not entirely taken away, but she was still enchanted by the hundreds of metal gears mounted on the inky walls, turning like one giant mechanism. They didn't seem to be powering anything; their purpose was solely aesthetic. The iron floor beneath her feet drank in the light of the hextech chandelier high above; at a closer inspection, Leona noticed that there was a plethora of alchemical diagrams carved into the floor, all glowing dimly in the artificial luminosity.

"Machine made art," Khada Jhin once again appeared at her side like a silent shadow, "you are unsure what to think of it."

"This is true," said Leona, "I thought machines were made to just serve man. I struggle to find beauty in them."

"Our minds must remain open, lest we deny and offend the holiest of them all: inspiration," Jhin rasped, his voice hoarse underneath the mask, and offered her his metallic arm. She took it, frowning.

"Inspiration has no gods. The sun and the moon, the forest and the sea - those are domains overseen by gods. But I've never heard of any that would lord over inspiration."

"They hide, and so we must search for them. I believe I have found one."

They walked up a set of brass stairs, passing one of the chem-barons. Leona stared coldly at him; the man had more iron than flesh to him, and she could not understand how he could have given up his humanity for a few gadgets.

"Are you saying I am one?" she finally understood Jhin's implication, and once again furrowed her brows. She could not see underneath his mask, but something told her that he had just smiled.

"Yes and no," he lowered his voice as he led her further up, around the balconies, "it is not within you, but in your melancholy, the way your eyes blaze when you are angered. In how defiantly you stand against the coming tide. Your pensive stares are not those of an ordinary mortal."

"I don't care for worship," she denied his words, "I serve the gods, not try to imitate them."

"If only I could heed your wish," he sighed, "but the artist must revere the muse."

Leona fell silent, trying to glean emotion from his masked face, but it betrayed nothing. Hers remained an iron facade, though something stirred within her - something warm and bittersweet. A spark of humanity, she thought - this desire to be nowhere else but here, in the company of the murderer Khada Jhin.

They walked the rest of their journey without a word. A few more wary _kinkou_ crossed their path up to the highest seats, but none cared to stop them; Leona was a curiosity to them at most, and her partner just one of the many Zaunite aristocrats, unremarkable in everything but his wealth. Still she felt a smidge of relief when they finally hid within their own private loge.

"I've never been to a theater before," Leona realized, looking down at the steam stage. The view was magnificent, and she couldn't help but wonder if Jhin secured this spot to fully enjoy the machinist displays or for a more sinister purpose. She didn't see his gun anywhere, though.

"I am honored to be the first maestro to perform for you, then," he said and offered her a seat, "not just yet, however. I will have the lesser machinists herald my coming."

He sat down next to her, and she had a single thought of regret - a single thought of betrayal. That she could storm out, run to the _kinkou_, save the people of Zaun and once again prove herself the champion of justice, radiant and solitary. The thought was soon drowned in her heartbeat, so loud and threatening to jump out of her chest in sheer anticipation. _To be human again..._

Khada Jhin sensed her struggle, and she could feel his fingers worming in between hers. He took her hand and gave it a reaffirming squeeze, and it was all she needed to once again become sure in her ways and decisions. She offered him a tired smile, barely seen in the darkening auditorium, and tried to catch a glance of his eyes behind the goggles. Obscured even to her, she was left staring into two glass mirrors, but somehow that was fine - they were two very strange people caught at a very strange point in time, brought together by chance and stubborn will.

She would have it no other way.

Finally they were pulled out of their trance by a loud baritone howl, announcing the beginning of the Grand Mechestra. Leona leaned against the thick balcony rail and watched as a band of mechanical animals, each playing a different instrument, marched onto the stage. Their engineer was just a boy, no older than fifteen; he introduced himself as junior machinist Luko and then set his invention into a whirring symphony that quickly gained on forte. It was curious and amazing in its own right; those mechanical paws and fingers weren't prone to human mistakes in tempo or notes, and so their harmony was perfect. Almost too perfect.

"Humans have imperfections," Khada Jhin whispered to her, "and so only they can be made into art. What do you think?"

"That you speak the truth," she said, unable to let her eyes off the orchestra, "humans are more than machines. But I don't understand art."

"It is the desire to create something greater than yourself," he mused, "to touch others in ways so profound that it changes them forever."

"But murder just frightens people."

"And it is why I am not a murderer," he canted his head, "but an artist. When you see a beautiful painting, you do not grieve for the colors used in its strokes. When you hear a delightful melody - like now - you do not mourn the instruments playing it."

"People have feared me since my ascension," she said, bitter, "I wish I could see deeper meaning in it, like you do in your work."

"I will try to open your eyes," he promised, pressing the back of her hand to his mask in a pretend kiss, "soon. Let us enjoy the display for now."

They turned back to the stage, where the mechanical animals had just ended their show. After a round of applause, another machinist entered the stage; this one brought no metal companions, but instead used his own, modified body. With all but his head covered in brass plates, he could turn his arms into all manners of instruments, from trumpets to accordions; it was frankly ridiculous, but the audience loved it even more than the first display. They cheered wildly after the mecha-man was done playing his song, and didn't stop until another contender stood on the stage - a woman with a metallic throat.

"This is the last one I will see with you," Khada Jhin announced before the brass chanteuse began singing her resonant song. Leona felt her blood rushing in excitement.

"Will I see you after your performance?" she asked, not caring for the music playing down below.

"No." Khada Jhin quietly pushed himself off his seat. "The _kinkou_ will be made aware of my presence, and I've no desire to get caught."

He stood behind her like a silent guardian, but Leona's mind was too loud for her to just enjoy the musical score. She slipped off her chair and rose beside Jhin in the dark, hesitant to speak. The right words eluded her, but she did not want her gratitude to go unspoken.

"Khada Jhin?" her voice shivered in a question as her hands crept up the gas mask covering his face. He pressed his fingers against hers in gentle disapproval, but she would not be stopped so easily; turning the gears and flicking the buckles of the heavy respirator, she would see it slide off his nose and mouth. She could tell just how uncomfortable he felt so exposed, and when he tried pressing her lips against his, he pushed her off like a startled child. The fear in his face hurt more than his rejection ever could, and Leona could only feel her melancholy deepen, her soul growing more distant by every second spent staring into Khada Jhin's goggled eyes.

The melody in the background came to a halt and then picked up again in a wailing crescendo. Leona turned to watch the rest of the show, her chest hit by wave after wave of dull ache. When Khada Jhin's hands beckoned her back, she expected nothing but more anguish; he pulled her into his arms and gently cradled her stiff form, wordlessly pleading for forgiveness. Leona closed her eyes in resignation and allowed herself to enjoy the brief moment of solace, to pretend she found a kindred soul in the murderer. And when he lifted her chin to seek out the kiss he had refused before, Leona thought she had perhaps finally lost her mind, imagining things that never were. Only the applause hailing the songstress on the stage sealed the moment as true and real, and Leona was perhaps a little too eager to dive deeper into it. Yet Khada Jhin did not elude her this time, as content to stay in the passionate exchange as she was.

But all things pass, and beauty most of all.

"Do not look for me," Khada Jhin when he finally slipped from her grasp, "keep your eyes on the stage."

She nodded and suppressed the need to pursue him after he had snuck out of the cozy loge. She returned to her seat and turned her gaze down to the stage, where a choir of lavishly dressed singers had just begun gathering. The last to enter was their director: a robot made of countless wires and metal tubes, its left arm serving as the baton that would direct the tone and depth of the performance.

"Ladies and gentlemen," one of the chanters bellowed, "you've seen machines made to serve man tonight, wondrous gadgets to play music for our pleasure. But what if men were made to serve machines - what if our inventions were the ones inventing music?"

A murmur rose in the audience, and Leona tilted her head in curiosity. She wished for Khada Jhin to have seen this; surely he would have something to say about this disruption of natural order.

Raising his arm-baton, the choir heeded their robotic director and began singing a somber chant. They had only gotten through the introduction, after which they were interrupted by smoke rising from somewhere beneath the brass podium. Leona thought it intentional at first, but the confusion on the chanters' faces gave away that this was an intrusion, not a planned part of the show.

"Si-ng," the conductor whirred in his robotic voice, waving his baton, "mu-sic. No-ise."

The choir disappeared behind a thick wall of smoke. Only when Leona could see none of them but the conductor, the hidden virtuoso struck; a shot whistled through the auditorium and painted the smoky clouds red. Leona winced.

_Like a crimson dawn rising above a misty horizon..._

The guests in the first row quickly realized what was going on, and the theater was suddenly engulfed in chaos. Only the conductor carried on, happy that there was some noise to direct again.

"Go-od," the robot whirred as Khada Jhin's gun transformed the screaming choir into the image of a bloody sun, more radiant for every dissipated ounce of smoke. The Zaunites below stepped over one another in desperate attempts to get to the escape door first; only Leona remained in her seat, mesmerized by the horrific display. She knew now that this was Jhin's response to humans bowing to engines.

She knew that his wild red strokes painted the image of none other than her.

Somewhere deep within, buried beneath terrible truths, there was guilt begging to be heard. But Leona could not muster the will or desire to raise her arms now, in face of the red sun. For all its bloody cruelty and macabre vigor, it was ultimately a confession of something deep and beautiful; that her life mattered more than these did, that someone would go and kill others for her to see.

For a moment, she was horrified of the joy she felt at the display. Then she let go of this fright, together with her mortal compassion, and just watched as the bloody image before dissolved into a pool of things unspoken; of love between an artist and his muse.


End file.
